


Reunion

by DarthFucamus



Category: Sinister (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Other, Rough Sex, Serial Killer, Supernatural Elements, demonic rituals, did I mention violent?, ghost children, lots of blood, sinister urges, sororocide, the kind that destroys you, violent fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9479411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthFucamus/pseuds/DarthFucamus
Summary: She would pay for everything, some day. But not yet. Not until she got what she deserved, what was owed to her. What was taken from her.





	

The incessant pleading begins to wear on her. The recognition in June’s eyes has long transformed to animal fear.  
April is tearing more tape, and silences her. But she thrashes, flings blood from the raw, juicy wound where her lower legs used to be. If she isn’t careful, she’ll loosen the careful tourniquets and die too quickly. At least her cries are muffled now.  
April watches her. June’s nose is running, and soon she has to focus on breathing without the use of her mouth.  
Oxygen deprivation: a sharp whistle of air through clogged nostrils, a widening of the eyes, a heaving of the rib cage.  
There. Now she is silent. But beneath the fear, is forever the confusion. She doesn’t understand. April was only a child when it happened, she didn’t know what she was doing. She’s had therapy since then. Counseling. Given a clean bill of health.  
June thought April was cured. She thought she was safe.  
And she was, for a time.  
Fourteen years. Fourteen years since she was taken from His loving embrace. Fourteen years since she caught sight of salvation, only to have it stolen from her.  
A lifetime of torment, of sadness, of loneliness. He was supposed to be her family. He was going to take her to an eternal home in His Kingdom of Children to live among them forever.  
But she is too old. And her sadness, and her anger, and her loneliness has twisted. It has become something else. Something all-consuming, self-destructive. An unending hunger that drives her to madness.  
April paints the lines. The pages are spread around the perimeter facing in. The projectors are primed, digital switches tied to the remote in her hand.  
June finds more strength, jerks her entire body. Her chair falls over, and her weight lands on her arm. She screams behind the tape as the already broken bone grinds together under the pressure.  
April ignores her and walks back to the center of the circle. His mark is there, and June stares at the severed fingers on the floor in front of her face because they are hers. Red polish, fresh like waxed apples.  
She begins to speak. She is speaking Latin. June doesn’t understand. But she is starting to.  
They told her they were nightmares. That the boogey man was not real, that He did not kill mom and dad, that it was only April. April, only six, snapped.  
But as she watches, she begins to hear things. Things on top of her sister’s voice.  
Speaking through her mouth, screaming as if from a great distance or a great depth. Saying No.  
April continues through their pleas. She sees them, around the edges. They are always there, the children. They mock her, yell at her, call her names like “loony April.” Now they are begging her to stop.  
She reaches into the bucket. Mashed viscera and blood, a paste. She continues speaking, but she is now coating herself. Painting her body so that it will be beautiful. Pure.  
June’s muffled sobbing intensifies, and April smiles because she can feel Him coming near.  
She presses the button on the remote. All six projectors start at once, each cast toward a white sheet, evenly spaced inside the room.  
April turns slowly, taking in the encompassing images, absorbing every crackle and every grain.  
Pool Party ‘66.  
B.B.Q. ’79.  
Lawn Work ‘86.  
Sleepy Time ‘98.  
Family Hanging Out ‘11.  
House Painting ’12.  
April watches them as though she is there. Hiding in the bushes, just out of sight. Through a window. And then, she is right there.  
Fire, drowning, shredding, rivers of red, bodies kicking taut on a short line. Art. Masterpieces, all.  
Her video never made it to the archive. She looks toward June. Her face is sheet white, her head limp, her breaths short and fast. Shock. Pupils dilated, pants soiled.  
“You ruined it, Junie,” April says, but she is not angry. “And you’re going to make it up to me.”  
She steps over, kicking the fingers aside, the same fingers that dialed the police. The same fingers that took her camera, tore her out of His arms, pushed her into a closet, locked her there until the police came.  
She kneels in front of her. The knife makes the sound of cutting tough meat as she frees June’s scalp from her skull. White bone, blotchy with blood, twitches, makes it harder to cut neatly. It won’t be long now.  
She wears June’s hair, long and black. Like His. On the projector in front of her, the bodies underwater become still.  
A ripple, a shadow.  
Him.  
The Him on the projection looks at her.  
The air ripples like the water. The dead children are gone. And then she feels Him behind her.  
She stays still, crouched, her eyes on the Pool Party. It has started over.  
Slow, she stands and turns. Her own breaths are coming hard and fast. When she sees Him, she falls to her knees. His terrible beauty washes over her.  
She is not what he expected. He knows her. His lost child. But… she is no longer a child. He sees her from every angle, every image of Him in the room looks at her. They see through her.  
Her soul is tainted. Forever damaged by the world of Man. Impure. He looks to the other. Her life is ebbing away with the red spreading beneath her.  
“You owe me,” April snarls through her teeth when she senses His distaste. His black gash eyes burn her, His mouthless face glows in the light of the projectors. She has his attention. “Fourteen years. Fourteen years I waited for you, but you never came back.”  
She is laughing and crying at once, delirious with a lifetime of pain and unending suffering, and joy because He’s finally here. He watches her, His posture straight, the dead white skin of His chest flashing in the projected light between the lapels. Images play over His mottled skin, of bodies kicking in the air.  
“But I found her. I found the last one.” She plants her bare foot on her dismembered sister’s still body. The heartbeats are sluggish, but she still lives. “I found my tape. Took it back from them. I am finishing what I started. A new film for your collection.”  
She points to the digital camera recording everything from the top of a file cabinet.  
This is not how it usually plays out. But Now He is interested.  
He opens His arms to her, and she folds into them, trembling. She remembers His arms, and how easily He carried her young body for just a moment of weightless bliss. Before June grabbed her.  
His fingers sink into the flesh of her buttocks and back, nails like shards of glass draw rivulets of blood. Hers mingles with June’s. A family reunion. Blood returns to blood.  
April gasps for the feel of His skin on hers, in hers. In a secret, jagged place deep inside of her, a want has taken root. A desire that she never indulged or speculated upon. Until now.  
The pain is real. The pain is love. As it spreads, she feels His love fill her.  
Bughuul, the devourer. The Eater of Children. But she is not a child anymore. She is a grown woman, and she is wanting.  
He lays her on the floor. What’s more blood on her bare skin? Inside of her? Clawed fingers part her lips between her legs, tight pinches of pain that make her wet. His clothes have melted into him and his mottled, corpse flesh shines and ripples in the glow of the screens.  
She stares into his black ichor pools until He enters her. She tightens around him, grips him. The friction of their movements generates greater hunger. Her head turns to the side, sighs and soft, animal noises as He fills her body with His. She watches the light leave Junie’s eyes, her face frozen forever in an expression of sad horror, her skin waxy pale like Buguul. She is part of this now. Because of her, it was possible.  
The divine and terrible body over her begins to thrust so hard that she shudders with the force of it and her back slides over the blood -slick floor. She grasps at His back, claws at the skin somehow as cold as the dead but burning with the fires of the dark realm from whence he came. Bughuul has no mouth, but she knows by the narrowing of His eyes, He does not like this. He tells her by setting a punishing pace, pushing into her again and again.  
Now the pain begins to shoot through her. It feels like He is tearing her apart from the inside.  
And He is. It isn’t only the physical pain of their joining, of whatever He has between his legs rasping into her tender orifice. It’s the feel of her soul being torn from her, one cell at a time.  
The pleasure comes in hot, burning waves, like the pool, like the fire, like the feel of body gone limp in the noose. Hands, hard and large and familiar, slide up her torso, snag at her breasts, come to her neck.  
He is going to kill her. Without words, He tells her this. He will fuck her body and choke her until she is lifeless. She will never see His glorious Kingdom of Children. She is too old. She has no place. She will die like her sister, and she will be nothing.  
But this isn’t her plan. She summoned Him. She is not stupid, perhaps as He assumes. Perhaps as all others have been before her. She is prepared.  
She wraps her legs around Him, even as the agony of Him ramming into her makes her want to recoil, to squirm. The panic in her chest urges her to flee. But the circle she drew is still there. If she steps outside of its confines He would not be able to follow.  
Not yet.  
She grabs a knife, scattered on the floor, unimportant until now. Bughuul is not concerned as he violates her, forces her to pay for calling Him to her, knowing that with each thrust He wreaks torment and ecstasy on her that will tear her soft, fleshy body to pieces. The knife will not hurt Him.  
But she does not use it to stab Him. She does not intend to kill Him. She grips His head and in one move, she slices the blade across His face between his nose and chin. He stops fucking, digs His claws into her neck, intending to push her away. But there is searing pain as the skin of His visage splits along the blade’s edge, black ichor pours from the wound, all over her, the sound of a voice repressed for thousands of years rises, gurgles in black rivulets, shrieking in pain and anger. The blood of a demon.  
A mouth, forced onto a face that cannot bear it. Already the skin has begun to mend, but she doesn’t let it.  
She tightens her grip around His waist, pulls Him deep inside of her until she can feel Him pressed against the soft, moist center of her cervix. She wedges his sealing maw open with the blade, the only blade that can harm Him, if only temporarily. A blood sacrifice, the essence of an innocent, a long-buried ritual that allows her mouth to close over His until she can feel His black tongue writhing, His jagged teeth, razor sharp, gnashing.  
In the biting, gnawing, swirling heat where their faces join, she mouths a silent command.  
You are mine, she says. And I am yours. We will never be parted.  
Bughuul’s body freezes, mouths locked in a desirous battle. Her tight, wet depths clench around him. He thought to punish her, to end her life of agony in a blaze of merciful torment. But she is slick, and it is not only blood. A burning need fills him. The sacrifice, the circle, the ritual, the home videos.  
The command, spoken without voice into His sealed mouth, takes root.  
When April senses the power turn, she breaks the kiss, knowing the black tar coats her face. His mouth reseals, trapping her voices behind seamless skin, an unbreakable mandate, a manipulation of ancient evil.  
She guides Him to turn onto His back. He does not resist, now.  
She is a vessel, once empty. But as she rights herself and begins to move atop Him, she feels her chest begin to fill. His black, fathomless gaze holds her, glittering like insect shell in the dim light. B.B.Q. plays in front of her. The family is in the car. The child, happy, watches the car burn. But the subject of the story becomes the audience and Bughuul watches her from the screen.  
All of them watch her, the images frozen as he moves freely, as though there are seven of Him, one each for the tips of the star painted on the floor beneath their rocking, sliding bodies.  
She feels Him writhing inside of her. Whatever He has, it does not feel like the phallus of a human. It feels forked and sinewy and undulating like a tongue whose tip strokes every part of her inside. Whatever is between His legs envelopes her, slides into her other opening until she is taut, stretched around Him, deep in her bowels, and with a rusty, gut-wrenching cramp of blinding agony, through her cervical opening and into her womb. She screams as everything cramps, raw rusty grating inside of her, but it becomes a hoarse moan as even now she is overcome with pleasure, unnatural and insatiable.  
She never knew it would be like this. She never knew it could be.  
The knife is in her hands. She wants to taste His mouth again, to swallow His blood, to consume Him completely. Something pinches her pleasure center, some part of Him, and she is thrust moaning and growling into her first climax. But He is not finished with her yet. Without relenting, without mercy, He pushes into her, twisting and rolling, until He forces another one. His nails bury themselves into her back, into her skin and layer of fat and the muscles underneath, and her hips still rock, grinding down onto Him, wanting more, more.  
She will get what she deserves, what is owed to her.  
He is on top again, but she doesn’t fight him. He grips the blade she holds, slices His hand. His fingers snake between her lips and she takes them in, laving them with her tongue and lips and grinding her teeth into His salty knuckles. He is gripping her jaw, now, his claws reach the back of her throat and as He sinks deeper between her legs. The black ichor seeps down her throat and she swallows. Her eyes roll back in ecstasy because now there is no part of her that is untouched by Him.  
You are mine, she thinks, as His pelvis grinds her into the floor, as all the light is swallowed by the black ichor that He is smearing across her face, filling her eyes. Her legs tighten around Him as she feels Him grow inside of her, tearing her like tissue paper and waves of ecstasy, roiling, burning waves of it, consume her as she loses count of how many times her spine has tensed and released until it is a never-ending wash of agony and pleasure.  
Her body begins to fail, but she continues, arms sinking into his back as he holds her close. His arms embrace her, devour her, and she is filled by him.

He finishes her, flooding her body with black viscous fluid that spills from every orifice like tears and then dries and flakes to ash.  
And then He gathers her in his arms. With His Children watching, Bughuul steps over her sister’s ruined corpse and leaves the circle, the covenant broken.  
She wraps her arms around his neck as she did once, so long ago, and rests her face against his chest.  
She is weightless in his arms as he carries her, passing from this world into His where she will stay, forever His, queen to his Kingdom, never to be alone again.  
\---  
The soft, licking sound of flames fill the room as the film strips flap against the drums. On the screens, the white projected light gives way to boils as the film melts. Smoldering flakes drift to the floor, catch on dry wood, on the black ichor that has been smeared everywhere, flammable.  
Before long, the room, and everything in it, is burning. Sirens outside forewarn of the impending directed jets of water. They quench the blaze before it can spread to the rest of the structure.  
In a matter of months, the property will be fixed, the dark history pushed aside, and a new family will move in.  
In the attic, a battered cardboard box waits. Seven films now.  
The newest addition bears a piece of masking tape with black marker lettering.  
Childish handwriting spells two words.  
“Family Reunion”.

**Author's Note:**

> We'll just assume that the recording cuts off before things get kinky. How? Demon magic, that's how.


End file.
